


My bird

by 3White_Mage3



Category: Hawkeye (Comics), Marvel (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Bad., Hurts., M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-25
Updated: 2014-05-25
Packaged: 2018-01-26 11:46:18
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 297
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1687139
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/3White_Mage3/pseuds/3White_Mage3
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was Phil's eulogy in its entirety at the service and it is the epitaph engraved on Clint's gravestone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	My bird

**Author's Note:**

> With full glory and credit to selfmanic, who writes BEAUTIFUL Phil/Clint, my favorite pair of all time. Please check out his/her "Collapse".

It was Phil's eulogy in its entirety at the service and it is the epitaph engraved on Clint's gravestone. 

The gravestone right beside Phil's own in the nature preserve that they had endowed with enough funding to last -- a long time. More than enough years for no one to remember Philip J. Coulson and Clinton Francis Barton anymore, and that was okay. Because they had thought after surviving everything thrown at them that they had time. Time to edge day by day toward an eternity together. And then after that, who cared really?

Phil had thought they had time. Years to make up for all the wasted time they spent circling each other. Years to enjoy waking up next to each other in the morning and years of just holding hands on walks through Central Park on glorious, sun-filled mornings, whether in the Spring when the great bird migrations were heading north to nesting grounds or in the Fall when those same birds were heading south to winter havens.

Thank God in heaven and every other deity ever worshiped by man that they'd had these last few years.

But those thoughts were for philosophers and the great thinkers. For now, Phil just sat there beside the grave exhausted, eyes red-rimmed, suit rumpled, hands trembling. Exhausted. The select friends invited to the service had gone, knowing there wasn't anything left to be said, no comfort to be given, no logic to overlay on the events of the last week, no pseudo-glory to be spun from this particular tragedy. They'd be there if there was anything left when Phil returned from the grave site. 

When. If.

Phil himself was pretty sure nothing meant anything anymore. Not a goddamned thing.

“It’s all right, Hawk. You can rest. I'm keeping watch.”


End file.
